Causation
by Azolean
Summary: Holmes was left alone in the sitting room holding the empty syringe. Watson's last words ringing in his ears. "It really is quite simple, Holmes. Corpses have no need of friends."
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **I have no idea how long or short this one will be or where it is going. Just a little something to keep me busy until NaNoWriMo officially begins in about 19 hours. I might even finish it before then. If I do not, then I will endeavor to do so before jumping into my NaNo project._

_This one is for** Lemon Zinger**. Thank you again for all the help and encouragement...along with these little distractions that make my muses giggle sadistically. _

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**Prologue**

The fist that caught him just under the jaw was such an absolute surprise that Holmes could only stare back in shock after staggering backward several steps. Watson's still too-thin face was red and twisted with a fury he had only seen a half a dozen or so times in the nearly fourteen years they had known one another. Before Holmes' already fuzzy and confused thoughts could come to terms with the fact that Watson had just hit him, the man had moved again. Stepping back and into a defensive stance for the next strike, Holmes raised his own fists. Only when Watson ducked and grabbed the dropped syringe off the floor did he then realize Watson's true target this time had not been himself. Too late, he watched the man crush the loaded syringe under his shoe and into the sitting room carpet.

"I will not allow you to poison yourself any longer," Watson said far more calmly as he stepped back out of Holmes' striking range.

Holmes, still stupefied by the events that had just taken place took a moment to absorb this. They had argued in the past, but he could never have expected this level of anger from his friend. After all these years he thought Watson had at last come to terms with this side of his nature. In the last six months since his return from the dead, Holmes had not needed it until now. But as the weather had taken a turn for the worse here in London, he had little to occupy his time. This being the first time he had openly brought out his case, he had expected Watson's usual reaction of disappointment or even irritation before taking himself from the sitting room.

Instead, Watson had given him a single, quietly worded warning to get rid of it. When Holmes had blatantly ignored this, he had flown from the sofa too fast for Holmes to comprehend. Now considering how the blow had done little more than startle him, Holmes realized he had been intending to get to the syringe the whole time. Holmes himself had never been the target.

"How dare you interfere—"

"How dare _you_," Watson shot back coldly. "I've only just gotten you back. If all you were planning was to finish off the rest of Moriarty's empire and then continue this slow suicide, you should have stayed dead."

Holmes' gray eyes widened in speechless shock. The man that now faced him was one with which he'd become familiar; but had never in his life expected to see such rage turned upon himself. He did not doubt in the least that Watson had meant exactly what he'd said. For just a moment, this made him pause to seriously consider the consequences of his next actions. However, somewhere deep inside the memories of the past rose up to remind him that they really had been here before.

Holmes' laughter elicited nothing more than a cool glare from Watson.

"What shall it be this time, Watson? Guilt? Will you plead with me as a friend and tell me how you will not outlive my death a second time? Or would you prefer to play the physician this time by telling me how stupid I am?"

"Neither."

"Oh ho! So you intend me to choose between you and the drugs?" Holmes snickered, entirely too amused by this almost comfortingly familiar part of the scenario.

"Not at all. The fact that we are even having this discussion has proven that my life does not matter to you in the least. No, it is nothing so complex."

Genuinely curious at this new and entertaining twist, Holmes resumed his casual stance. "Pray, enlighten me."

Watson gave Holmes a pitying smile that reflected in those icy cold green eyes. "You will choose between _your _life and the drugs."

Again Holmes laughed. This really was turning into a delightfully entertaining twist to the old argument. His curiosity had definitely been stimulated now as Watson reached for his medical bag and very deliberately drew out a clean, empty syringe to place on the table between them.

"It is a very simple problem with a very simple consequence," Watson stated, taking two steps back from the table. "You will make the decision for yourself. I have nothing more to say on the matter that has not already been said."

Grinning maliciously, Holmes reached for the syringe. His eyes flickered to Watson challengingly only to find his friend had already turned away. Closing his medical bag, Watson reached for his coat. For one heartbeat, Holmes feared he had just underestimated his friend.

"You said I was not chosing between you and the cocaine," he stated to Watson's rigid back.

"I did, and you have not. As I said, Holmes, it was a very simple decision, with a very simple consequence. You really should thank Mycroft for keeping that plot reserved for you since your last funeral."

Taken aback by this heartless phrase coming from such a cold voice that Watson had only previously reserved for the lowest criminals they had faced, Holmes found himself again momentarily speechless. He watched numbly in disbelief as his friend gathered his coat, walking stick, hat, medical bag, and wallet. Obviously he was not retreating to his room after losing the argument.

"Watson..."

Calmly, Watson opened the door to the sitting room. Turning back, he gave Holmes one last sad smile. Then he turned to pull the door closed softly behind him with a few, parting words.

"It really is quite simple, Holmes. Corpses have no need of friends."


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

One day turned into two. Two days became a week. A week became a month.

As late-November rolled around and Watson refused to return to Baker Street when Holmes was present, he had finally been forced to admit that his friend had truly abandoned him. The comfort of the cocaine only lasted so long, as he had learned some time ago. He supposed he deserved it. It was only fair, when one considered how he had abandoned his friend. He had taken the time to consider Watson's words and still felt he should not be the one to apologize. When Watson was well and truly ready to make amends, he would forgive Holmes and return once more.

Holmes did not doubt for one moment that the work the doctor had taken in the city hospitals would not hold his interest for very long. Watson needed him and their adventures. Proof of that was in how badly he had wasted away in Holmes' absence. The fact that Watson had done nothing to cover his tracks when he had taken rooms near St. Bart's proved only further in Holmes' mind that he was just biding his time waiting for an apology. Though, he had to admit that Lestrade and the others of Scotland Yard might prove a bit more of an obstacle. Along with the work Watson had found at the hospitals, he had again resumed duties as a police surgeon...an amazingly successful one, at that.

Holmes was willing to wait, however. He could be patient when the situation required. He just had not considered Watson would be quite so stubborn in this. His occasional correspondence in that direction was continually met with silence. The one time they had passed on the street, Watson had walked casually past him as if he did not exist. Of course, these infrequent attempts to gain Watson's attention had been during those lulls between cases as the weather began to grow colder and wetter; thus leaving Holmes with more and more time on his own.

After a particularly gruelling case in some of the worst alleys of London, Holmes had found himself delirious from blood loss. The knife wound had not seemed so severe at the time. But the vague memories of Lestrade all but carrying him to a hospital from Scotland Yard as he demanded Watson was something of a shock. The next shocking blow in this whole affair struck him squarely upon his waking in a hospital bed being tended to by another physician. Not only had Watson refused to treat him, but had left a note with the doctor he had instructed to care for Holmes.

_Corpses have no need of physicians, either. ~Dr. Watson_

Holmes had fled the hospital then, still weak from blood loss and trembling with a combination of fury and a myriad other emotions he refused to acknowledge. Part of his mind refused to believe this was happening. His Watson could never be so completely devoid of compassion. Not for the first time, Holmes wondered what else had transpired in his absence that had so changed the man. He was well aware of Mary's passing in childbirth and the death of the infant shortly after. His own death in Watson's eyes had been an unpleasant surprise, certainly. But he had at least had Mary, then. Following Mary and the child, he had had Lestrade and the company of all of Scotland Yard to keep him occupied.

Why, then, was Watson so utterly convinced that the occasional use of cocaine would lead to a swift and meaningless death? It was not as if it were a constant addiction. Holmes only used it occasionally to fill the time between cases.

These thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sight of man in question opening the door to 221B Baker Street. Caught somewhere between trembling confusion and weakness from blood loss and his own furious thoughts, Holmes staggered toward the now open door. Watson deftly stepped aside as Holmes collapsed to his hands and knees only inches away from Mrs. Hudson gasping in horrified surprise. Watson barely spared him a glance as he continued his momentarily interrupted conversation.

"Just remember to mix the ginger well or it could be a little too overpowering. And you really should do something about that troublesome tenant of yours, Mrs. Hudson. Corpses should not be lying around getting in the way of others' lives," Watson commented in a voice filled with loathing.

"Dr. Watson!"

"Good day, Mrs. Hudson!" Watson called cheerily as he turned his back to walk casually down the street.

Mentally Holmes had completely seized up. Were it not for Mrs. Hudson now bodily lifting him back to a standing position careful of the stitches and bandaging on his right arm, he would have thought this some horrible fever dream. Weak, in pain, and more vulnerable than he cared to admit, that last comment from Watson finally broke something inside of him. He could feel it screaming for release as Mrs. Hudson tenderly tucked him into bed promising food and tea to follow. Though this was by no means the first time he had ever been left weak and injured, Watson had always been there for him. Watson had shielded him even from his own vulnerability in such situations.

Now he was alone.

Now he wished he really was dead.

~o~o~o~

Half a block away Watson ducked into an alley. Turning back, he had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson all but dragging Holmes into the foyer. The look of absolute desolation on Holmes' face in that glimpse had nearly undone him. It had been an act of purest willpower not to turn around right then and there. It was not in his nature to be cruel, especially to an already suffering man. Some part of him died each time he did this to Holmes. He had long ago ceased to care about his own life, but Holmes...

Taking several deep breaths, he tried to compose himself once more. It would not do to be caught hovering so very near his former residence on Baker Street. If he had any chance at all of convincing Holmes to turn away from the drugs, he had to keep his own feelings in check. Holmes had a stubborn streak wider than the Thames. But Watson refused to let him win this time. He desperately needed Holmes. He needed his friend and brother. But he could not live with that failure all over again. To watch his friend die slowly while he stood by helplessly to stop it was more than he could bear.

When Holmes had lost consciousness in the hospital, he had carefully tended the wound and seen to his placement in a bed in the ward before assigning another doctor and paying him for his silence in the matter. He had not expected Holmes to abandon the hospital quite so soon. His trip to Baker Street had been intended to give Mrs. Hudson instructions on how to further treat Holmes' injury and see to his recovery. Mrs. Hudson still did not understand what had happened between them, but he had been able to assure her it was for the best. It was simply bad luck that Holmes had appeared when he did. But had he not taken advantage of the opportunity, Holmes would have quickly become suspicious.

Finally feeling himself back under some semblance of control, Watson headed wearily back toward his own rooms. He would give almost anything to be safely ensconced once again before the sitting room fire in his own chair. Almost anything.

Holmes' life was not among them.


	3. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **I know this is a familiar theme to most in the ACD fandom. However, this one is going to be a little different. Also, NaNoWriMo has just started about an hour ago. I'm attempting to push this through and finish it before jumping into my NaNo project, which will likely be posted here later. In the meantime, thank you for your patience. I may be slower updating than previous stories._

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**Chapter Two**

In the days that followed this last encounter, Holmes found himself in the nearly helpless position to do little more than listen to Mrs. Hudson's commands to stay in bed. Worse, he had begun to suspect she was giving him something in his food or tea to keep him there. Every time he found the energy to work himself into a sitting position, he found himself once more asleep before even making it to the door of his bedroom.

Having taken a couple of days to consider this, he quickly dismissed the notion. The only one who had ever been able to effectively keep him in bed besides himself had been his Watson. Mrs. Hudson was not capable nor had the knowledge to do so. And the sheer amount of sleeping he had done had left him little time to consider things. The screaming swirl of emotions that had overwhelmed him after his last encounter with Watson had receded rapidly with sleep. But there was still something there that felt like an open wound. Unaccustomed to such a feeling, he had attempted to dig deeper to try to at least understand this feeling.

On the fifth day, during the first week of December, he finally managed to defy the demands of his body to make it as far as the sitting room. Still weaker than he would have preferred, he managed to successfully locate a pipe and settle into his chair by the fire. Again he stared at the chair opposite his own where Watson should now be sitting. Instead of the anger he had felt in the past few weeks, something much darker and less distinct rose up in him. It was a feeling that reminded him of the three years spent away from London being chased across the continents. It was a longing, but also something much deeper.

He was already aware of his feelings regarding the missing piece of his life in the form of his friend and partner. Loss was something he was all too familiar with in his life. But there was so much more to this. Things he had not expected or could recall having dealt with in his own mind. It was a sort of emotional bleakness not unlike the mental bleakness he experienced from time to was potent, too. That much concerned him. Strong emotions had a way of clouding judgment and twisting reason. No, he could not logically think his way through this, but it still had to be dealt with nonetheless.

These distractions infuriated and concerned him. He was furious because he had no basis for comparison or the knowledge of what to do with them. They concerned him because they could be detrimental to his cases. Heaving a long and weary sigh, he settled into his contemplations. For the time being, he had little else to do with this time. Until he was recovered enough to resume cases—which could be days—he might as well focus on this little problem.

~o~o~o~

Watson was relieved to hear his plans with Mrs. Hudson were working, even if only from a distance. She had successfully managed to keep him in bed for four days without Holmes suspecting anything. That was more than he could have hoped. Though, the idea that Holmes had not caught on also worried him. It was not like Holmes to overlook a potential danger or betrayal. Perhaps it was his complete trust in Mrs. Hudson. He liked to think that's all there was to it.

However, in the second week of December when she sent word via one of the Irregulars that he had spent nearly a week between his bedroom and the sitting room ignoring cases, he had begun to grow even more concerned. Of course, Holmes would not confide in her. He did not fall into one of his black fits, according to her description. He had acted more as if he had some sort of deep thinking case that did not require him to leave the sitting room. He ate little, drank more coffee than even Mrs. Hudson thought was healthy, and slept almost not at all. Watson had almost broken down and gone back to Baker Street to see to Holmes himself when Holmes suddenly began taking clients again all on his own.

As the third week of December rolled around and Holmes appeared to be back to something approaching normal behavior for him, Watson again began to relax. He was disappointed, without a doubt. He had hoped that perhaps this last encounter that had left his gut twisting with guilt and concern would drive Holmes into at least attempting contact. When there had been no attempts, he began to wonder if there ever would be again. Perhaps this last had been too much. Maybe he had gone too far in his attempts to prove a point and break his friend of the dangerous habit.

With the Christmas holiday swiftly approaching and a depression setting in, Watson explored these doubts along with his convictions. He wished there was a way to convince Holmes quicker and maybe even return to Baker Street before the holiday. He was tired. Tired of fearing for his friend's health, tired of being alone, tired of...so many things. Walking home that night from his last round of the hospitals seemed longer than ever before. Children played in the slushy, gray snow. Lovers walked hand in hand down the streets. The Christmas decorations gave a cheerful feel to a world that seemed so gray and tired to his eyes.

Finally he made it back to his own, dreary rooms. Again there were no messages from Mrs. Hudson or Holmes. Still no sign anything had changed. He offered up a small prayer and took himself to bed for the night.

~o~o~o~

Holmes did not like where this case was going.

First had been the false trails leading back to an older case that had left him empty handed when the primary suspect had expired in an opium den almost ten years ago. In the end, he had been forced to turn over all his evidence and theories to Scotland Yard and leave the case solved, but not to his liking. As ever, he would have much preferred the hand of justice to come from the official forces and not an accidental death. Without a confession, nothing could be proven. Without an execution, it seemed almost too easy.

It had been a simple case of murder. Though no body had ever been produced, he had begun the investigation then with little more than the word of a distraught woman that her fiance was in danger. This was quickly proven when the man in question disappeared the same day never to be seen again. All of the evidence had pointed to murder. The fact that the man in question had done so for no better reason than to guard some dark secret Holmes was never able to uncover had only further complicated the investigation. The resolution and his theories were never proven, the criminal dead instead of caught, and the family's outcry against the accusations had been quickly silenced by Scotland Yard in a way that fell just short of blackmail. The client that had originally come to Holmes had fallen into despondency and eventually taken her own life.

The whole miserable mess had been a waste of time and effort on his part. Having to revisit so many useless points of that case in order to understand why the family was again under suspicion for other crimes had left him with a very unsettling feeling. Another woman had shown up on his doorstep virtually unannounced only a week before Christmas claiming her husband was in very real danger, though she had no idea what beyond her sense that he was being threatened. Mr. Powell, while seemingly an edgy and nervous individual by nature, was obviously under a considerable amount of stress. Holmes had quite easily determined that the man's denial was false and there was more to the story. The leads he had gleaned from that first encounter lead right back to the Gibson family and their wealth.

Thoroughly disgusted and fighting the feeling he was chasing himself in a ten-year-old circle, he continued to pace the sitting room waiting for the worst of the weather to pass. If this situation was not resolved soon, likely he would be spending his holiday chasing down more information. Mrs. Hudson was soon to be leaving for her sister's, and the idea of spending the days at the Diogenes with his brother made him shudder. The idea of contacting Watson tentatively crossed his mind on more than one occasion. Remembering those cold, vicious words from his friend quickly changed his mind. He had absolutely no intention of giving in to the obstinate man's demands. It was ridiculous, and Watson's fears were irrational at best. But, perhaps, they could call a truce just for a day or two...

Growling to himself unconsciously, he again stared at the empty chair opposite his own at the fireplace that he refused to have removed. Watson would come back. He_ had _to. He had nowhere else to go, and no one else with which to spend the holiday. He had no doubts that Watson would be knocking on his door any day now.

Yet the voice within that emotional, dark cloud continued to declare otherwise. Taking hold of his Moroccan case, he silenced that voice once more.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Two days before Christmas Holmes found himself once more trudging through the slush of half-melted, re-freezing snow on the sidewalks as he dragged his weary body toward the comforts of his rooms on Baker Street. Though there was not going to be a fire or tea waiting as Mrs. Hudson had already departed for her sister's for the holiday, there was at least the safety and comfort he found himself craving more and more. The fact that Watson was a part of that safety and comfort had finally settled in to his exhausted mind. He had almost detoured around to St. Bart's and Watson's rooms to request his presence. His determination to wait out the stubborn man's obstinance had decreased with each day that this investigation left him sagging with exhaustion. He needed his friend. He was almost willing to admit he needed his Watson more than he needed the occasional cocaine or morphine at this point. Almost.

Unlocking the door and letting himself in, Holmes divested himself of the soggy outer-wear right there in the darkened foyer without even bothering to turn up the gas light. He would deal with the rest in the morning. For now, he just wanted sleep. Just a few hours in the arms of Morpheus to make this whole miserable mess easier to sort out in his own head. Wearily, he dragged his aching body up the seventeen stairs toward the sitting room. Reminding himself once again that there was no fire, the warmth of his blankets called to him instead. Using the door to his own bedroom there on the landing, he quickly stepped over to his wardrobe in search of clothing.

He had only enough time to realize he was not alone before a cloth scented in something familiar was clamped down over his face while multiple arms took ahold of his weary, aching body. The spiral into darkness left him cursing silently at those who would dare invade his private sanctum.

~o~o~o~

After finishing the last of his rounds at the hospital, Watson found himself feeling a bleakness he could almost relate to Holmes. Though he knew Holmes' were more of a mental level, he could not deny the dark cloud that hung over his own thoughts that stemmed directly from the aches in his heart. Trudging his way through the re-freezing slush, he mentally battered himself for every patient he'd lost these few weeks to illness from this foul weather. It never got easier for him. Each one was a personal loss to him; a life that could have been. Though he did not blame himself as he once had, it still hurt all the more when that loss was a child.

Aching in heart and soul as much as body now, he felt his footsteps dragging all the more for the return to his cold, lonely rooms. He almost detoured around to Baker Street. The knowledge that Mrs. Hudson had decided to stay with her sister for a couple of weeks during the holidays was almost enough to drive him into apologizing to Holmes. He dearly did not want to leave his friend so completely alone at this time of year. Though Holmes had never been one to do much celebrating of the holiday season, their own quiet holidays spent in the sitting room before the warmth and comfort of the fire were dearly missed.

Knowing Holmes was keeping busy with a case that seemed to be frustrating him, however, firmed his resolve. At least Holmes was busy and not indulging in the cocaine or morphine. Wearily, he unlocked his door and set down his bag. Instantly he was on the alert when the slightest sound of movement in the darkness beyond set his nerves on edge. Still crouched from setting down his bag, he came up swinging with his walking stick. The satisfying thump of wood on flesh, followed by staggering footsteps confirmed the person had been moving toward him. Before he had a chance to step backward into the light of the hall, another set of hands grabbed him by the coat dragging him inside his darkened rooms and closing the door.

For a time he was blind to all but the frantic battle against unseen hands. By this point he had guessed there were at least three, maybe four. He swung with feet, fists, and walking stick at anything that moved. The sounds of pain all around him were the only indication that he was winning the battle in the darkness as the hands just kept coming. From every direction they tried to pin his arms and legs.

The sudden explosion of pain across his back and head floored him. His last thought as he spiraled into darkness was of Holmes, cursing his failure to be able to warn his friend of the danger.

~o~o~o~

Holmes first sensation upon slowly returning to consciousness was a sense of floating that was very familiar. It usually was like this after one of his morphine binges. The furry taste of an extremely dry mouth did little to dispel this illusion. The minor throbbing in his skull and rising nausea only accomplished making him want to retreat back into the darkness further. Hearing the movement of approaching footsteps further encouraged his retreat, as he was in no mood to deal with Watson when feeling like this.

The hand that viciously gripped his hair to pull his head upright had his eyes flying open a heartbeat later just in time to see the hand coming toward his face. The shock of that slap left his ears ringing as the hand continued to grip his hair, leaving him no escape from the backhand that caught him next. Now fully aware of his surroundings, Holmes levelled his piercing gray eyes on the one man he had not wanted to see today.

"Good evening, Mr. Gibson," Holmes replied to the slaps coolly.

The man in question smiled maliciously as he released Holmes' hair from his grasp. Those dark eyes continued to sparkle malevolently as he backed up a step toward the fire.

"It is good to see you awake," the man commented. "Now we just need to await our other guest."

By this point Holmes had taken in the fact that they were in his own sitting room. His arms were tied behind him around the back of a chair from the breakfast table. This chair also offered the additional ability to tie his ankles to the legs, effectively hampering his movements. So far he had detected the presence of at least two others somewhere behind him and beyond his field of vision. Before he could comment further, however, the sound of the front door opening and several sets of feet on the stairs caught his attention. Apparently Mr. Gibson had also heard it as he swiftly headed toward the sitting room door to greet these newcomers with a smile of wicked intent that did not sit well with Holmes.

"This one put up a fight, Mr. Gibson," one of the men spoke up.

"Tom and Mike are in the carriage. They're in pretty bad shape, Mr. Gibson," a second one put in with a grunt as it sounded as if they were carrying something.

Whatever it was Holmes' mind formulated as a comment to these, died on his tongue as he caught sight of the limp, bleeding figure of Watson behind hefted like a sack between two men. A third man grabbed another chair from the table as they began to tie Watson in a similar manner.

"What are you doing?" Holmes hissed, willing Gibson to meet his gaze.

The man smiled with unconcealed delight as he turned around to answer Holmes' question. "We're having a Christmas party, Mr. Holmes."


	5. Chapter Four

_**A/N: **Okay, I admit it. I'm actually rushing this a bit. So if it comes out kind of rough, I apologize. _

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**Chapter Four**

Gibson's demeanor never faltered as his little henchmen tied Watson to the chair and carried it around to where it was place directly in front of Holmes. Holmes had no doubts this did not bode well for either of them. He ignored the others for a moment while he eyed Watson critically. The blood had been coming from a split lip, so didn't worry him overmuch. The numerous bruises he could see were a concern, but little more. It was with some sense of pride that he again acknowledged the fact that his Watson had not gone down without a fight. However, still being unconscious meant the had taken quite a few blows; possibly some leaving serious injury. He concealed his concern as he imagined the painful pressure to the man's left shoulder as he slouched forward in the chair pulling on the hands tied behind the back of the chair. Watson would definitely be in some pain after this ordeal.

Keeping his expression to a cool, neutral mask of very mild curiosity, he waited for Gibson to dismiss the others. Once they were alone, he turned his gaze to their captor.

"I must say that this is quite a gift you've brought me, Mr. Gibson. Quite typical of the obligatory return in this holiday season. Though, I should warn you it is not a welcome one, and you may feel free to take it back at any time."

Gibson's laugh was startlingly loud. "Very good, Mr. Holmes! Yes, I had heard of your parting ways with the doctor in recent weeks. But, I am very much in doubt of your sincerity in that statement. We shall soon put it to the test."

Holmes could only watch silently as Gibson rummaged around his bedroom to return with a couple of cravats he used to effectively gag Watson. Watson's groan and fluttering eyelids alerted them to his waking just as Gibson was finishing. Nonetheless, Gibson took advantage of the moment to extract some satisfaction in a repeat performance for rousing a semi-conscious man. The two vicious slaps left both of Watson's cheeks flaming red and one side of his nose bleeding slightly. The cold, green glare he levelled at the man was no less piercing than Holmes' own had been.

As Gibson stepped back out of the line of sight, Watson caught sight of Holmes also bound to a chair. His eyes widened for a moment in surprise as he took in his surroundings before narrowing dangerously as they returned to Gibson. Gibson smiled with sheer enjoyment at the moment.

"Yes, Dr. Watson, you are home. Mr. Holmes has decided to throw a special Christmas party this evening," Gibson began to explain.

Watson's eyes very deliberately shifted in Holmes' direction without actually meeting gazes. There was no missing the suspicion in those eyes that flickered for a moment before dying back down into a cold glare toward their captor. Holmes did not allow his bored expression to change in the least as fear began to creep into his thoughts.

"As you said, Mr. Gibson, the holiday is swift approaching. I would appreciate it immensely if you would get to the point of this little meeting."

Gibson tittered gleefully, not in the least bothered by the interruption. Moving to within inches of Holmes' face, he smiled quite openly once more. Those nearly black eyes glittered with something that left Holmes' forcing his racing heart to slow. The madness was almost tangible.

"I would be much obliged, Mr. Holmes. But first, you will give me my Christmas gift," he whispered in a low, menacing voice. "I want my brother back."

Holmes blinked. No longer in any doubts as to the man's sanity, he felt that fear spread into something approaching panic.

"Your elder brother is dead," he gasped. "He died in—"

The fist he fully expected to cut off his words was instead directed toward's Watson's face. He silenced his next words as Watson's head bounced off the wooden back of the chair before righting itself more slowly than Holmes would have been warranted by such a blow. Obviously Watson was still suffering the effects of his previous encounter. However, those green eyes very deliberately strayed away from him, refusing to make contact even to assure him. The twisting sensation in Holmes' gut only worsened with this realization.

"My brother was not a murderer!" Gibson was screaming. "He was murdered! He has never been to an opium den in his life! You told Scotland Yard lies and slandered my brother's name to satisfy your own ego." Gradually he was calming through the course of this speech. "You had need to solve a crime and produce a criminal. When you could not, you used my brother. Instead of investigating his murder, you defiled his name."

Vaguely concerned that anything he said to the contrary would only cause Watson more suffering, Holmes kept his neutral mask in place as he continued to eye Gibson more warily. Finally, the man's heaving breaths slowed as he regained his composure. The smile that returned to that previously rage-twisted face sent a shiver down Holmes' spine.

"You will clear his name with a confession written in your own hand, Mr. Holmes. _That _will be my Christmas gift from you."

"I will do no such thing," Holmes shot back.

The unhinged laughter that came next made his heart twist painfully in his chest. "Oh I was so hoping you would say something of the sort."

Gibson produced a small knife from his pocket that he quickly used to begin cutting away Watson's jacket and shirt at the sleeve of his left arm.

"What are you doing? Watson had nothing to do with that investigation."

Holmes cursed the slightest tremor that tinged his voice as the man continued cutting and removing the sleeve to bare Watson's left arm to the shoulder.

"He is your brother, Mr. Holmes. Despite your recent differences, anyone having seen you together could tell as much," Gibson continued merrily. "You accused my brother of murder and the wanton use of drugs."

Watson's brow furrowed slightly, but he still refused to meet Holmes' eyes. Already Holmes could deduce where this was going. He could see in his friend's forced expression of calm that he did as well.

"I say much the same about him. How many men has he killed in your investigations? Thanks to his published accounts of your cases, we all know you're the drug user in this partnership. Which is why it was so easy for you to accuse my brother, beyond being dragged to and murdered in an opium den."

"You're mad, Mr. Gibson," Holmes finally said, horror plain on his features. "The evidence—"

Again he was forced to silence as Gibson buried the knife blade to the hilt in Watson's arm eliciting a pained grunt around the gag and pinched expression on his paling features. Unlike previously, Gibson did not for one moment lose his calmly cheerful demeanor.

"The evidence you provided was a lie, Mr. Holmes. I will hear none of it. You will write your confession and I will deliver it to Scotland Yard personally."

Ever so slightly, Watson shook his head as a signal to Holmes. By now they had both come to the conclusion that no matter what Holmes did, Watson would suffer the consequences. And, in the end, they would both die unless a means of escape could be found. Holmes watched as Gibson carefully extracted the knife and cleaned it leaving the wound open and bleeding freely onto the carpet. Watson stiffened slightly, still carefully avoiding Holmes' gaze as Gibson moved behind him. Holmes' heart once again began hammering fearfully as Gibson took the Moroccan case off the mantle where he'd left it.

"My brother was murdered in an opium den. While the setting is a little different, we will now create a similar effect here with_ your _brother." Carefully he opened the case and pulled out the nearly full bottle of cocaine and the syringe. "How does it feel to know your own filthy habit will cause further suffering to your brother?"

The wicked laughter clove Holmes' tongue to the roof of his mouth. He willed Watson's green eyes to find his. Silently he demanded his friend acknowledge him. He refused to let this happen.

"Unless, of course, you are willing to write the confession now and spare him?" Gibson taunted as he filled the syringe fully from the bottle.

Again Holmes caught Watson's head moving ever so slightly in a negative gesture. "Watson..."

This time Watson stared at a point directly over Holmes' shoulder as he openly shook his head very deliberately. Gibson's delight was clear as he came back around the chair to grip Watson's left arm with enough force to bruise. Watson's brows furrowed for a moment and he closed his eyes as the needle penetrated the skin. Holmes opened his mouth to shout in panic as the plunger forced the clear liquid into Watson's arm. This was easily a lethal dose for anyone not accustomed to such. For Holmes it would likely have been too much.

As Gibson continued to giggle sickeningly, Watson's eyes flow open with the removal of the needle from his arm. The wide, horrified stare from his pale face tore at Holmes' mind. He could only watch helplessly, wordlessly as his friend tasted the cocaine for the first time in a brutal way. Watson's breathing stuttered and began to come in short gasps as his eyes glazed and blinked furiously. Several times he shook his head as if to try to shake away the sensations he was now experiencing with terrifying clarity.

"Watson?"

With short, jerking movements he shook his head again. Those eyes pinched tightly shut spoke of something akin to pain. But the determination in those furrowed brows told Holmes he was still fighting the effects. Gibson stood by watching with a smile as he left the two alone for a few minutes to enjoy this moment for himself.

"I would assume that was an overdose," Gibson finally stated. "Curious. He seems greatly affected. But I do not see how such would lead to death."

As Watson continued to breathe in short, gasps through his nose the pallor began to fade into a pink tint. Holmes was all too familiar with the racing heartbeat and the sensation of blood pounding in the ears that accompanied the first effects of cocaine. Watson would likely be feeling no less in addition to the euphoric sensation he was valiantly battling. But Holmes knew he was losing. Slowly those eyes opened again to gaze distantly off toward the ceiling as the cocaine claimed his mind as well as his body.


	6. Chapter Five

_**A/N: **Busy morning here at work. So, I'm afraid this will be the last one for tonight. Thank you to all who have reviewed and favorited. You're just further encouraging my muses to torment these poor characters. lol Going to have to give them something fluffy soon before I completely break them beyond usability._

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**Chapter Five**

Holmes' own heart raced as countless thoughts screamed through his mind. Watson's eyes stared vacantly up at the ceiling. He had stopped fighting. Holmes could not ignore the guilt that squeezed his heart painfully. Bad enough that this was happening at all. But for it to be happening to his friend, his brother, in such a brutal fashion with potentially deadly consequences was just too much. And with his own supply of cocaine! Forcing his mind to some semblance of order, Holmes licked his lips in an attempt to banish the feeling of terror that squeezed his throat shut.

"Very well, Mr. Gibson," Holmes started in a voice little above a horrified whisper. "If you agree to let him go, I will write the confession."

"Ha!" Gibson barked a laugh, finally taking his attention off Watson. "Why would I ever do such a thing? My own brother was murdered, afterall. I should return the favor. At least you'll know your brother's murderer."

Watson's head shifted to finally rest his dilated eyes on Gibson. The look Holmes could see in that distant expression was one that had not only succumbed to the effects of the cocaine screaming through his veins, but had already given up. He quite easily and readily accepted what they had both figured out would be the end result. Neither of them would leave this room alive. Holmes prayed it was only the drug making Watson seem so easily accepting of this. He did not want to believe his own friend would be so willing to give up so easily.

"If that is your plan, what incentive do you leave me? My own life means little, Mr. Gibson. I doubt Scotland Yard would bother to investigate too deeply on my behalf; especially where it would appear I had simply taken too much cocaine. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, is a valued surgeon for Scotland Yard. They would not allow the matter to rest until you are caught and hanged."

"I fully intended to confess to the murder when I bring them your confession," Gibson tossed back, quite happily. "Though you do raise a good point. With your brother dead, there is little incentive. I will agree to let him go without further harm if you are willing to take his place."

Watson's reaction was sudden and violent. Despite the cocaine, or perhaps because of it, he thrashed violently against his bonds to the point the chair creaked threateningly. The gag negated his screaming oaths of protest, but Holmes could understand nonetheless. His breathes heaved as he turned those wild, blazing green eyes to finally meet Holmes' own gaze. He shook his head violently, his expression one of dire warning.

"Watson—"

Again that head shook as he glared. Gibson stood back watching the exchange with a sadistic smile of pure enjoyment.

"I cannot allow this!" Holmes shouted back. "I will not—"

Watson again began to thrash violently as if trying to reach out and strike Holmes.

"Well, it would seem his mind is made up, Mr. Holmes," Gibson chirped happily moving toward the case to refill the syringe he still held in his hands.

Watson's chest still heaved as he ceased his thrashing. Those fiery green eyes bored into Holmes.

"Stop," Holmes called, his mouth dry with panic. "I will do it."

Watson shook his head violently, still boring into Holmes with those eyes.

"He says otherwise," Gibson shot back, having refilled the syringe to the fullest. "Brothers really should agree on such a decision, don't you think, Dr. Watson?"

This time Watson nodded, still refusing to break eye contact. Holmes' face was an open mask of terror, he knew. But he was helpless to stop what happened next. As the plunger shoved the clear solution into Watson's arm, the reaction was almost instant. No longer leaning forward as if reaching toward Holmes, Watson's back stiffened violently as his head snapped backward. There was just enough time for two quick gasps of breath before he began to spasm from head to foot. The seizure took him completely. The wooden supports of the chair cracked and groaned threateningly as Watson thrashed again, this time uncontrollably.

The choking, gurgling sounds behind the gag finally forced Gibson to cut it away to prevent Watson from possibly choking on his own vomit. He had no intentions of losing even a minute of this fun to something so simple. Watson continued to thrash blindly and wildly as the chair gradually began to come apart. Holmes could not help the whimper that escaped his lips as he watched. Tears stung unbidden behind his eyes at this horrific sight. He cursed himself mercilessly for ever having learned of the existence of cocaine.

Gibson continued to watch with interest both of their reactions. When Watson's thrashing finally dwindled and ceased, he shrugged in a rather bored manner. He was not quite disappointed to see Watson still breathing in short gasps, though obviously completely unconscious at this point.

"It seems he will not be giving his agreement, after all. So, Mr. Holmes, what shall it be?"

"There is pen and ink on the desk by the window," he replied, never taking his eyes off Watson. His entire existence had narrowed down to that one sight.

Perhaps if he finished this quickly enough, Watson could find help. He was still alive, that meant there was hope. The morphine would be quicker, at any rate. That being the larger bottle and completely full, there was no doubts it would work for himself. He had not even had a chance to further dilute it since it was purchased only a couple of days ago. The sooner he ended this, the quicker Gibson would get to Scotland Yard alerting them. Maybe if he—

"He's not breathing!" Holmes found himself shouting seconds later when Watson's chest stopped almost in mid-gasp.

Holmes thrashed against his own bonds now cursing openly as he tried to get to Watson. He had no idea what to do, but his mind had ceased to function as Watson ceased breathing. He refused to let this happen. He was not going to sit here watching his friend die helplessly.

Moments later Gibson blocked his view of Watson as he stepped between them eying the doctor curiously. As with before, he gripped a fist full of hair and proceeded to slap the man brutally. This, apparently did not produce the desired effect as Holmes strained to see around Gibson. But the man happily shifted sideways a step so Holmes could see. After a few slaps, that left Watson's nose and lips bleeding freely, he frowned in disappointment. Fearing he might lose his confession, he made a fist and punched the doctor in his exposed stomach.

Though Holmes winced inside at the abuse, he prayed silently it would work. Holmes did not even realize he had been holding his own breath making his lungs burn for oxygen until Watson's cough and gasp produced some amount of fluid. Realizing that the doctor was vomiting, Gibson quickly released his hold and stepped back. A rather pathetic amount of brownish sludge dripped down Watson's chin and onto his chest as he resumed breathing in small choking gasps.

"Watson! Watson!" Holmes finally called, again fighting the bonds as he ignored the blood flowing freely from his wrists.

Ever so slowly Watson's head began to struggle to rise. Several times it fell back to his chest as he gagged repeatedly. He seemed almost too weak to even meet Holmes' eyes as he forced his head back upward again and again. Holmes felt his heart squeezing painfully in his chest seeing this struggle. His Watson was still fighting. He was still struggling to respond to Holmes' voice even after all of this. The tears that gathered in the corner of Holmes' eyes burned painfully at this sight.

Watson finally took a deep breath and forced his body to comply. His upper body leaned back as if to aid his head in rising. The ominous creaking of the chair turned into a sharp crack as the back of the chair finally gave out under all the strain. Watson collapsed in a pile of wood and rope as his eyes closed once more. Gibson's renewed giggles at this sight eventually penetrated the terror still clinging to Holmes' mind. Forcing himself to calm, Holmes attempted to force his mind to comply with his demands. Having regained some of his composure, he finally turned his gaze back toward Gibson.

"If you wish me to comply with your demands, you will cease to torment Dr. Watson," he advised in a tone that brooked no argument. "You will remove his bonds and put him in my room. He is incapable of furthering your cause, now. I will do as you request, and recommend the morphine. I could not care less of your actions regarding your own confession, so long as you agree to take my confession directly to Scotland Yard immediately. You may do so by any means you choose, but will include that Dr. Watson need immediate assistance. I, of course, will be dead before you leave."

Gibson listened to this with all the seriousness of a man in negotiations. "You are in no position to make demands, Mr. Holmes."

Frustrated with having to waste precious time explaining himself, Holmes growled darkly. "Give me the pen and paper so I can at least write the confession while I explain to your little mind how this works in your favor."

Gibson scowled darkly, before grabbing the back of Holmes' chair and dragging him toward the desk. He cut loose one hand and painfully tied the other to the back of the chair. Meanwhile, Holmes laid out his plan.

"The morphine is undiluted, as I've only recently purchased the bottle. It will work quickly, even should you choose to watch the results for yourself. Whether you choose to run and have the message delivered by another is entirely up to you. But delivering it immediately will ensure a constable is sent to help Dr. Watson," Holmes explained, taking up the pen with his free hand.

"You are willing to take his place?" Gibson asked, no longer smiling.

"Yes."

"Good, either way one of you loses a cherished brother. I am satisfied. Now, here is what you will write," he said, producing a paper from his pocket.

"See to Dr. Watson," Holmes commented, taking the paper.

He frowned darkly at the long letter, but wasted no time in copying it into his own hand as swiftly as he could manage. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Gibson cutting the rope and chair away from Watson's limp form. He held his breath for a moment as he confirmed for himself that his friend was still breathing. Though Watson's face twitched as if still spasming, he gave no other indication of consciousness. The rapid, gasping breaths that made his chest move was enough to assure Holmes for now that his friend still lived. He hoped by removing Watson from the immediate vicinity, that Watson would be spared the further torment of watching his friend die should he regain consciousness. Quickly he produced the key to his bedroom for Mr. Gibson, who swiftly locked both doors.

Holmes offered up a silent prayer that Watson would hold on long enough for help, as he turned his attention back to the task at hand.


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N: **My apologies for the longer than expected wait. Still getting back into the routine after Hurricane Sandy. Thank you to everyone that has fav'd, reviewed, and followed. I hope to wrap this up shortly and then on to NaNoWriMo._

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**Chapter Six**

Holmes continued to write the words already before him on a separate page. This required little thought, even with the man hovering over his shoulder. Instead, he turned his mind to a the more calming task of sorting out his own thoughts and feelings of the the night. He considered his position with Mr. Gibson and his insane plot. He considered Watson's already suffering from the effects of far too much cocaine. He considered his own guilt in this matter. He considered the previous case that had let to this juncture. He considered his brother's likely reactions to his obvious suicide. He considered his previous attitude toward Watson. He considered what Scotland Yard would make of this whole mess. He considered his regrets. He considered all the unfinished cases he would be leaving behind.

All these simultaneous thoughts and more raging through his mind being swiftly acknowledged, categorized, and filed away. This systematic approach to his inner processing steadied his hand upon the page, slowed his heart rate, and calmed his frayed nerves. Only then did he realize he had considered nearly every aspect and inch of his life of recent weeks that lead to this moment. Combined, this was likely more information than any other human being could process in hours. For him, it was a matter of minutes. And, as he began the second paragraph, did he realize he had considered everything except a way out.

Quickly he dismissed this idea as irrelevant and an unecessary waste of time.

He was set to his task. He had made his decision.

_Corpses don't need a way out, _Watson's voice spoke acidly in his mind making his hand hesitate on the page momentarily.

Silently growling to the voice in his mind, he satisfied it by running through a myriad scenarios; all of which still left one or both of them dead. In the seconds it took to accomplish this, however, Mr. Gibson's attention was drawn away from Holmes' task. The sound of movement from the bedroom finally penetrated Holmes' thoughts. It was quiet movement, but enough that both had heard. Even as Gibson took a couple of steps away from the desk, Holmes' heart stuttered. That wasn't the sound of Watson tossing on the bed helplessly. He was certain he had just heard his window opening.

Even in his condition, Watson refused to give up without a fight.

The wave of shame that swept through him was consuming. In that moment, so much of what had occurred these last few weeks—and especially tonight—made perfect sense. Watson had not given up on him. Watson was fighting him in a subtle, less direct way, to stop his friend from doing what he believed was wrong. He had not selfishly walked away to protect himself from the inevitable disappointment, he'd been provoking Holmes to react. Tonight, he had not been sacrificing himself to spare Holmes. He had been buying them time for the great brain without a heart to formulate a plan.

And Holmes had almost done exactly the opposite. While his Watson still believed in him, he had given up on himself. Finally, he understood.

Seeing Gibson pulling the key from his pocket as he approached the door converted all of these things into a moment of panic, frantic thought. Holmes reacted more out of instinct than any thought. Knocking over the ink bottle in his sudden movement, he opened the drawer that Watson reserved for a special item. This accomplished two things simultaneously. Only inches from the door, Gibson turned his attention back to Holmes, buying Watson the precious seconds he would need to escape through the window. The second was that he was now armed. Not sparing any time for self-recriminations at his ridiculously clouded judgment in failing to see this sooner, he turned the gun on Gibson.

"If you would be so kind as to step away from that door, Mr. Gibson, I would appreciate continuing our earlier discussion."

Gibson's expression clouded only for a moment before he smiled. "You've disappointed me, Mr. Holmes. We both know you are not one to shoot an unarmed man in the back."

Holmes considered this, as it was very true. With his one arm and both legs still tied to the chair, he had little or no hope of controlling the situation. His only recourse would be to kill a man in his own sitting room. A man, obviously on the edge of madness, who had little care for his own life was a dangerous enough situation. Still hearing noises from the bedroom beyond, both briefly turned their eyes back to the door. Seeing Holmes' hesitation, Gibson made his move.

Not wasting time on the key, Gibson used his larger size to kick the door to the bedroom. The kick was placed perfectly beside the knob shattering the door frame. At the same instant, Holmes fired. There was no decision in his mind. He simply would not allow Watson to come to further harm.

Gibson's body jerked, as the bullet entered low in the left of his back. He stumbled and fell into the now open door. From this angle, Holmes could not hope to fire another shot in his direction without risking Watson. Cursing his bound position in the chair, he set the gun on his desk as he frantically sought for a letter opener or a knife or anything he could use to cut himself free. It was a matter of moments to locate a letter opener, but he could already hear movement from the bedroom as Gibson recovered from the initial shock. He could hear nothing from Watson as he frantically sawed at the scarf used to bind his legs.

A chill breeze from the bedroom was accompanied by a wordless growl of disappointment and growing rage. As this increased in volume, he listened to Gibson apparently trying to avoid Holmes by escaping through the other door with his key. In a matter of seconds he would be going after Watson, who had obviously managed to escape through the window. Having freed his other leg just as he heard the key turning in the lock, Holmes ignored his other hand as he dropped the letter opener and took up the gun. Dragging the chair with him, he dashed toward the sitting room door. He offered a silent thank you to Providence that it was not locked as he fumbled his fingers around the knob and the gun.

He finally managed to get the door open just as Gibson was disappearing around the corner of the landing and down the stairs toward the foyer. Holmes only distantly felt the excruciating pain of his shoulder nearly being wrenched from the socket as the chair caught momentarily on the door. Yanking it with all his considerable strength, he again dragged it with him as he dashed down the landing. Without a second thought, he rounded the corner and fired two more shots down the stairs. The second winged Gibson in the shoulder throwing him off balance. But that mattered not at all when the third impacted him squarely in the back throwing him the rest of the way down the stairs. He landed in a heap at the bottom, his eyes staring blankly back up at Holmes accusingly.

Holmes' world ceased to exist. For several seconds those dark eyes bored into his soul and called to the darkness. He had never before killed a man; not with his own hand and deliberate intent. He could not imagine the effect this would have on him. But as his clenched stomach lurched nauseatingly, he forced these thoughts and feelings aside. He had to get to Watson. Still dragging the chair behind him, he returned to his bedroom. In seconds he had cut his nearly useless hand away from the chair and dashed to the window. He nearly sighed with relief as there was no sign of his friend lying helpless in the slushy remains of snow below the window. His keen eyes also noted there were no fresh tracks or trails.

"Watson?"

The lack of answer sent his already racing heart stuttering. In seconds he was ready to tear apart his room. Forcing his racing thoughts into something resembling order, he searched under the bed and in the corners. As he opened the door of the wardrobe to find Watson curled motionless within, his relief left him weak-kneed. Ignoring the screaming pain in his left arm, he gently took Watson from the wardrobe to place him back on the bed. His friend never stirred, though Holmes took extra time to ensure for himself he was still breathing. He covered Watson and closed the window before quickly dashing back down the stairs and out into the cold night air in search of a constable.


	8. Epilogue

_**A/N:** Not quite sure how this turned into a Christmas fic, but what the heck. I hope you all enjoyed it._

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**Epilogue**

As Christmas Eve dawned to clear, chilly skies, Holmes found himself at a loss. The chaotic activity of the previous night was a blur in his mind. He recalled Lestrade, several constables, Dr. Cummings, and others. He knew the information was filed away somewhere in his brain for later perusal. For now, all he could focus on was Watson. After being cleaned and tended by Dr. Cummings, Watson still had only stirred fitfully. From time to time he would thrash in his sleep or call out for Holmes. Holmes had taken up his chair beside the bed and refused to move. His one arm in a sling, he found his free hand occasionally reaching out to soothe Watson with a touch or a clasped hand. These little things seemed to soothe Watson's confused and fearful thoughts more than any words Holmes could speak.

And, in all honesty, Holmes really didn't know what to say. His mind and heart continuously waged war with one another; neither gaining any ground. His rational analysis of the previous night seemed to stimulate feelings of unworthiness he could not bear to contemplate for long without touching upon this new darkness he had learned in Watson's absence.

Toward late morning those green eyes finally opened with something other than confusion. For several seconds, Holmes just sat where he was curled in the chair as those eyes sought his.

"Holmes?" Watson eventually croaked in an unsteady voice.

"Yes, dear chap," Holmes returned, tentatively.

His eyes having focused sharply, Watson's expression quickly transformed into one of concern as he spied the sling holding Holmes' left arm. Until that moment, Holmes had been unspeakably terrified that Watson would resume his previous attitude and turn away from him once more. He had not realized he was holding his breath until he reached out to lay his good hand on Watson's shoulder preventing him from rising.

"It's quite alright, Watson. Dr. Cummings says it is just a strain," he assured his friend gently.

Obviously Watson had also caught the tender notes of concern his Holmes' voice as he returned his attention to his surroundings. "I heard gunshots."

The shadow that passed Holmes' face for a brief instant was not missed by his dear friend, but Holmes quickly pushed this aside as he reached for the glass of water. He nodded silently, not quite ready to explain himself yet. Watson carefully pulled himself to a sitting position wondering at the countless aches that seemed to radiate from every muscle. Realizing for himself that his friend was not ready to speak of the subject, he drank from the glass to relieve the burning in his throat.

"It's over."

Returning his gaze to Holmes' sincere gray eyes, Watson very nearly dropped the half-finished glass of water onto the bed covers as he grasped the full meaning of what Holmes was trying to convey. There were no symbolic gestures. There was no grand speech. It was a simple statement of fact. Holmes would never touch the cocaine or morphine again.

Watson cocked his head as if silently asking if his friend was certain. Holmes never wavered as he gave a brief approximation of a half-smile. This exchange included so many things that words could not, but left both comforted and assured of their place with each other.

The next day, as the two of them resumed their fireside chairs with a brandy and a pipe, no further gifts were needed. The gift of renewed friendship, and the possibilities of where their lives would go together was the only gift that mattered that Christmas day.


End file.
